


Drearburh Unsolved

by historymiss



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, haunted house au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 00:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: Gideon Nav, 19 and horny, takes a summer job as a tour guide at the mostly abandoned, definitely haunted Canaan House. Harrowhark Nonagesimus may or may not have been dead for fifty years. They’re both horrible British teens.





	1. Chapter 1

Canaan House has stood at the edge of the village for as long as Gideon can remember. Apparently the people that built it used to own the local mine, or that’s what she’d learned at primary school in Local History. She remembers flicking through microfiche on a class trip to the library for research, staring at yellowed photographs of a pale, rat faced girl and her pale, rat faced family in front of a house that’s barely changed since its alleged heyday, which coincidentally was also when most of the surrounding village mostly died at 40 from black lung. Some of the more vivid drawings Gideon had done that day had earned her an afternoon with the counselor.

But, old houses need tour guides and the village of Drearburh needs all the tourism it can get, and Gideon, more specifically, needs a steady flow of cash this summer if she wants to spend her gap year doing anything other than serving chips to drunk hen parties in Trentham at 4am. It is a match made, if not in heaven, then a kind of dreary middling purgatory. At least the house owners are away- if the season is slow, she might be able to catch up on her summer reading. _Lesbian Lumberjack Monthly_ is hardly going to sweatily peruse itself. 

Gideon punches in the code emailed to her by the groundskeeper and dumps her bag next to the entryway. Very little effort has been made to make the place look official. It is dark, it is cold, and there isn’t even so much as a desk. Gideon lets out a low whistle, which disappears flatly into the gloom.

“Hello?” Nothing. “Strippergram?” Still nothing. If anything, the place gets a few degrees colder. Gideon shrugs and settles down into the chair, pulling out her phone.

There’s a message from her foster mother.

_Have a day at work. A._

Gideon eyerolls at one particularly moth eaten deer head.

_u missed out ‘good’_

_I know what I wrote. Will be working late on a case til 8. Pizza for dinner tonight. A. _

Nice. Gideon does a little victory fist pump and joggles a vase, precariously left in a tiny hall table that seems to have been specifically left there to catch out beefy athletes who are only trying their best. She catches it before it falls, swearing, and notices that, for some reason, it’s been blocking the light switch.

Weird.

Oh, yeah. Aiglamene. Quickly, Gideon composes a reply.

_have fun being a tool of the fascist oppressors_

_Enjoy Disneyfying the past for rich townies. A._

Gideon snorts, reaching out to flick the lights on, and is about to put her phone away when it vibrates again. It’s an unknown number, but it looks like it’s from a housekeeper or something. 

_Do not touch the lights._

Oookay. That’s odd. If there’s someone in here, why didn’t they respond when she shouted? Gideon looks around but she can’t see anyone. Maybe they have hidden cameras? She shrugs and texts back.

_no problem- y?_

The reply is as terse as it is confusing.

_Ambiance._

This job, Gideon surmises, is going to be weird as hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon Nav meets a goth

The next few hours pass slowly. Sitting alone in the dark is not really a Gideon activity (she’s more of a loud noises and sassy remarks kind of girl, or, as her teachers tend to put it, ‘a challenge’). Gideon balances her phone on her forehead until it falls off and bruises her shin. Then, rubbing the bruise she’ll no doubt have later, she vigorously investigates the contents of her left ear. That done, she leans in her chair aaaaaall the way back, balancing precariously on two of the legs, tilting further and further until....

SNAP

“Shit!”

The chair, having been designed with consumptive Victorian waifs in mind and not healthy, hockey playing teenaged girls, dissolves peevishly into matchsticks underneath her. Gideon hits the floor, hard. 

“Crap! Fucksticks! Bloody-“ Gideon scrambles to her feet and looks around wildly, though the only witness remains the mouldering deer head.

“Not one fucking word.” She points at the unfortunate animal before gathering up the remains of the chair into her hands. 

“Ugh. Nobody is going to believe this fell apart on its own.” Gideon sighs and straightens up, stretching her back out. “There must be someone here, right?”

The deer, of course, has no reply.

“Some help you are.”

Muttering about the relative selfishness of taxidermied game, Gideon stomps off down the hall. It opens out into a grand receiving room. A long staircase curls it’s way to the top in the kind of grand sweep a Hollywood starlet would descend in the 1950s, though the thick dust on the runners suggests that nobody’s used it in a very long time. Portraits, blurred by decades of neglect, watch on disapprovingly as Gideon stands in the middle of the rug and tilts her head all the way back.

“Hello?” 

There’s a long, long moment of silence. Then, from a hallway off to her left, Gideon hears something. Nothing too obvious- a slight, dull thump, like a footfall, and a sigh that is unmistakably human.

Gideon’s eyes narrow at the shadows of the hallway as she taps out a message to Palamedes Sextus, whom she had initially befriended on the strength of his surname but kept around despite the subsequent terrible disappointment. He is her smart friend (sort of- he’s studying for medical school and gets excited about microscopes), so he probably knows about ghosts.

_hey sexy_

_I told you not to call me that_

Christ, what a nerd. Gideon would have killed to be called Sex Pal. Some names are just wasted on their owners.

_Ok but what do u know about ghosts_

_Aren’t you at your new job right now_

_yea and theres ghosts._

_There’s no such thing as ghosts, Gideon._

Gideon snorts again, and sends him a ghost emoji. Then, just in case he doesn’t get it:

_Dude I swear to you this place is fckn haunted _

His reply takes a few minutes to come back.

_Gideon, do you remember our mock exams_

_Why tf do YOU remember them_

_You drank eight cans of Monster and hallucinated the hamburgular in the middle of the biology exam_

_Oh yeah_

_You have a mind predisposed to fantasy._

Gideon blinks at this, then returns her phone to her pocket. Gandalf-texting nerd. Obviously too blinded by his boner for science to see the true workings of the world.

As she rubs away the memory of an eight-Monster migraine, Gideon hears another soft footfall. Closer, this time.

“Is that the housekeeper?” Gideon follows the noise down the hall. It’s in even more disrepair than the receiving room, the paint peeling from wooden siding in long, curling strips. Gideon guesses she’s not supposed to take any tours through here, although maybe some of them like that kind of shit. Maybe all this is fake. Maybe she’s been tricked into being the door woman for some kind of goth escape room. Maybe she’s going to be murdered out here and Aiglamene won’t notice until the back issues of _Tits and Giggles_ pile up. 

Luckily, the hallway is not without decorations, and because Canaan House is older than dirt, some of those decorations are pointy.

Some of them, indeed, are swords.

Gideon spots it as a line of darker black within the gloom. A sword, God knows how old, resting in a little stand against the wall. It still even looks sharp. She reaches out to it almost without thinking, her hand inching closer, closer-

“Don’t touch that.” 

Gideon screams and whips around, phone pointed out like a gun at-

A goth?

A tiny, scrawny goth, black hair curling around her head like a malign cloud, with a pinched little face and eyes like tiny black pebbles. She’s wearing a long black dress, like those lacy things Gideon has seen in the H&M in town, and the overall effect is if someone had dressed one of those bald cats up as Wednesday Addams.

“Wha?” Pants Gideon, eloquently, as her heart judders anxiously in her chest. “You- here?”

The girl looks like someone’s done a poo under her nose.

“Oh. You’re simple.”

“And you’re-“ Gideon squints. “What ARE you? I thought I was the only guide.”

“I live here.” Her reply is positively Arctic. 

“Oh! I didn’t know the Nonagesimus family had a daughter.” Gideon hesitates, then holds out her hand. Maybe if she proved she could string together a sentence, the goth would like her. “Gideon Nav.”

The girl looks at it as if Gideon has offered her a dead rat. Possibly even more displeased than that- she has a kind of pro dead rat vibe. 

“Harrowhark.” Pause. “Nonagesimus.”

“Well, Harrowhark Pause Nonagesimus, do you go to school around here or-?”

Gideon is distracted by the faint sound of a car pulling up outside Canaan House. The door slamming and general chatter sound like visitors, and she turns to invite Harrow with her-

But the girl is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon Nav meets some lesbians

The two visitors at the gate of Canaan House are what Gideon mentally classes as ‘posh lesbians’- dressed in gilets and riding leggings, polo shirts high around their necks so their heads look like they’re balancing on little pastel pedestals. They introduce themselves as Judith and Marta, information that Gideon immediately loses down the sofa cushions of her brain.

Another things she’s totally failed to retain is literally any information about Canaan House that would be useful for a tour. _The lights are busted and there’s a spooky bitch living in the attic_ probably won’t cut it. 

Instead, Gideon takes Judith and Marta’s £5 each suggested donation and shepherds them through the hall and into the kitchens, taking a detour through a grand and only slightly cobwebbed dining room, pulling as much vaguely historical nonsense out of her arse as she can manage.

“-and here, you see the splendid French Tipped dining table with details from the late Totino.”

The women nod sagely, as if this was something they expected to see, and could now soberly tick off a list. Gideon, sweating, gestures to the paintings.

“This is Lord, um, Milhouse. And his wife, lady Nelson.” 

Marta- or is it Judith?- looks at Gideon with a penetrating expression.

“Nelson?”

“Different Nelson!” Gideon says brightly. A small piece of moulding drops from the ceiling like a stone and bounces off the top of her head.

“Ow!!” 

Later, as she shows Marta and Judith out, Gideon sees a shadowy figure standing in an anteroom off the main hall.

“You got it wrong.” Harrow’s voice sounds like the wind in bare trees at winter, like the last exhalation of a corpse. Gideon shrugs nonchalantly.

“Still got ten quid out of it.”

Those pebble black eyes narrow, and Gideon shivers from a sudden chill.

“You disrespect the house.” 

“I didn’t see you coming to help.” Gideon pulls her hoodie tighter around her, folding her arms across her chest more for defense than warmth. Harrow regards her coldly, almost as if evaluating some new dusty piece of furniture for the house, then looks away. Gideon assumes it’s in disgust.

“I can’t.”

“Not the downstairs type, ey?” Gideon shakes her head. “Just as well, I’m not really into being your bit of rough.”

Harrow makes an indistinct, choking sound. Pure rage, maybe? Either way, she’s coloured a little, and Gideon is unexpectedly thrilled to see the very faint darkening of her skin.

“Give me the tour.” Gideon says, impulsively, before Harrow can disappear again. The other girl tilts her head like a crow with poor social skills.

“Of the house?”

“Of the exact contours of your probably haunted vag, _of course_ the house.” 

Harrow’s blush deepens almost imperceptibly.

“Alright, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to at least try and teach you something.” She pauses in a half-turn into the depths of Canaan House, caught for a moment between shadow and light.

“Oh... Griddle..?”

“You can call me Griddle, sure.” Gideon concedes, because it at least speaks to a kind of familiarity.

“It... isn’t.”

“What isn’t what?” Gideon grins, playing the big dumb jock card for all its worth. Harrow glowers at her, her eyes filled with pure, delicious hate.

“Haunted.” She spits, turning on her heel and stalking away.

“Liar!” Gideon replies, sauntering merrily after her into the dark. “I bet when you queef, bats fly out.”

“_GRIDDLE_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon Nav gives her number to a girl, sort of.

Harrow leads her deeper into the house than they’ve gone before, past dingy, stewed-green paintings of landscapes and blotchy photographs of more rat faced Nonagesimus ancestors. Gideon has seen a documentary on ancient Egyptian tombs, on that rare occasion when they’d allowed the signal privilege of watching a video in class. This was like that, almost- like diving into a mouldering and long forgotten past.

“Lovely place you’ve got here.” She says absently to Harrow’s quickly striding back. “Very, uh, fungal.”

“Your approval,” the girl replies in sephulcural tones, “means the world.”

She turns and indicates a room with mottled green glass from floor to ceiling, the skeletons of plants in cracked pots.

“The solarium.” 

Gideon suspects she’s supposed to do something here, so she applauds politely. Harrow glares at her, so she applauds louder.

“There’s a pool at the back.” She raises her voice to be heard over Gideon’s clapping, which dies down fitfully, stuttering into silence. “We won’t go there.”

“Smart.” Gideon looks towards the mouldering double doors that lead to a shadowy, tiled space. “Not got my swimmers on me.” A thought passes, briefly, through her head. “Where do you sleep? Is there a coffin in the basement, or do you just, like, hang upside down off the rafters?”

“Upstairs.” Harrow says shortly, leading her into the kitchen, which is in somewhat better condition than the rest of the house. An electric kettle is plugged into the wall next to a packet of teabags and some very stained mugs, probably left by the groundskeeper. 

Harrow stands there, awkwardly, not quite wringing her hands but definitely giving the impression that general wringing-ness could be about to happen any moment.

“Do you... want a cup of tea?” Gideon tilts her head. She doesn’t really have much experience with feral goth girls, and most of her sweaty fantasies usually involved a bit more frills, a bit more blonde, and a lot of heaving bosoms. Harrow doesn’t even have a bosom _to_ heave.

“No.” Harrow says shortly, sitting down on the stool next to the large, pitted table. Gideon sits, too, hopping up to rest her butt on the scarred surface. She pauses there a moment, swinging her feet in their scuffed black boots.

“Oh, was that you that texted me? About the lights?”

“No.” Harrow lies, immediately and obviously. Gideon rolls her eyes. 

“It’s alright if you did. I just want to know who’s got my number, okay?” Gideon leans forward. This close, she can see the shadows under Harrow’s eyes, smell the slight whiff of long dead flowers that clings to her. Her eyes skitter away from Gideon’s face like dropped maltesers.

“Alright. It was me. I got your number from the housekeeper.” It seems like a huge concession, despite the fact that Harrow has clearly been creeping on her like a fucking creep. Gideon, however, will take it. Pulling out her phone, she brings up her mystery contact and designates it ‘spooky bitch’.

“There we go. Now I’ll know who’s harassing me about the electricity next time.” She checks the time, winces. It’s nearly practice.

“Well, my gloomy overlord, I gotta head out. Have fun in the Haunted Mansion.”

Harrow doesn’t reply, instead picking at some of the cracks in the wood. Gideon swings herself off the table and heads back through the house and out into the sun.

Later, her phone buzzes on her bedside table. It’s Harrow.

_You left your sunglasses._

Weird. Gideon could have sworn she left them in her pocket. Whatever. She dashes off a quick message and flops down onto her pillow to dream of shadowy girls in mouldering houses.

_K. I’ll see u 2mrw_

Deep in the recesses of Canaan House, something breathes a satisfied sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: texts between Gideon Nav and Camilla Hect

_cam I need ur elder gay wisdom _

**I’m two years older than you nav **

_yea like I said elder gay can u advise or no _

**I don’t know, new technology scares me**

_caaaaaaammmmmmmmmm pls_

_ caaaaammm _

**Fine, but I can tell you now I’m not helping you ask Dulcinea out. There’s a code.**

_no not her. unless has she asked about me tho _

**Oh yes she talks endlessly about how she pines for your fauxhawk and the empty skull it warms**

_ nice _

**Is that what you needed? **

_ok no ok ok so I have this friend who just met a girl and she’s super mean but alone in this massive spooky house and I’m probably gonna see her again so I should try and be friends right?_

** I can’t even begin to parse that**

_ uuugghhhh _

**Sorry, Nav. People are confusing. Just be yourself. Thumb.**

_ I wish u would use emoji like a normal person_

**Kissy face**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon Nav puts two and two together

The next day, Harrow is lurking in the entranceway of Canaan House when Gideon shows up. And the day after, and the day after that. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable there, at the threshold, but the shadows from the rest of the house do a good enough job of giving at least minimal cover, and every day she moves a little closer to the light.

“Greetings, shadow boss.” Gideon tries on the third day, confident by now that this weird ferret goth won’t suck her blood, at least not for minor infractions. Harrow looks at her hand balefully.

“You’re late.”

“Only a little.” Gideon holds up a wrapped blue and white sandwich. “Had to get my breakfast.” 

Harrow’s nose wrinkles, as if she’s just gotten a whiff of the smell of melted cheese and bacon coming off of Gideon’s panini. “Charming.” She turns sharply on her heel to begin the ritual they’ve established of Gideon making herself a tea and Harrow refusing all sustenance.

“Don’t get it on the surfaces.”

Gideon, of course, does precisely that, leaving a big and wonderfully smeary handprint on the side table that had surprised her on that first day. “Mmm, protein.” She sucks cheese off her thumb. Harrow looks away, and the room seems to get a little colder.

“Are you here all the time?” Gideon asks around a mouthful of melted heart attack. Harrow’s spiky little shoulders move noncommittally. Gideon takes this little movement, digests it along with her breakfast.

“And how long have you been hiding that you’re here from your parents?”

Harrow stands stock-still, and Gideon has to halt sharply to avoid walking into her back, which she can only presume would both flatten Harrow and provoke a swift and terrible retribution.

“You must be a boarding school runaway, right?” Gideon continues nervously, as some ancient instinct tells her that a silent Harrow is Not Good. “Trust fund run out or something? Now you don’t want mummy and daddy to know you’re squatting in the ancestral pile?”

Gideon isn’t stupid. She’s straightforward, which isn’t nearly the same thing- she has had to be observant to survive (in that before-Aiglamene time, the life she doesn’t care to remember) and she’s good at guessing the truth from limited information.

Harrow, by contrast, seems to live for these unspoken secrets. Over the last three days, she has offered nothing of herself to Gideon save sarcastic remarks on her tour guiding abilities, yet she still hangs around her like a malevolent haunting.

Gideon is beginning to suspect that Harrow is very, very lonely.

“You’re wrong.” Harrow’s voice comes eventually, thin and biting as a winter wind. “I’m not a runaway, and I don’t have a... ‘trust fund’.”

Her voice mentally drops the quotes like tongs around the word, carefully extracting it for examination.

“Sure.” Gideon chomps the last of her breakfast down moodily. “You just live here in Mold City for the hell of it.”

It’s only now that Gideon realizes that Harrow isn’t leading them to the kitchen.

They’re going to the pool.

“I don’t live here.” Harrow is moving like clockwork, like a girl posessed, her movements jerky as a sleepwalker as she leads Gideon through the gloom of her ancestral home.

“I’m not living anywhere.”

She turns, and Gideon can see the stained wood of the double doors that lead to the pool room through her face, dark as a bruise spreading under the skin.

“I died, Griddle. Fifty years ago.”


End file.
